


A Tale of Scarlet; Forbidden Moments

by beauty_love_stardust



Series: A Tale of Scarlet Series [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canonical Character Death, Consensual Underage Sex, Death, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Underage, F/M, Falling In Love, Healing, Healing Sex, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Incest, Incest Kink, Kissing, Mental Breakdown, Mental Disintegration, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Pre-War, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma, Ratings: R, Romantic Soulmates, Self Confidence Issues, Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Sibling Incest, Touching, True Love, Underage Sex, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 02:25:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15742230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beauty_love_stardust/pseuds/beauty_love_stardust
Summary: She saw what no one else could see in him...The good. The kindness behind those eyes. She loved him, and she always had.She was the baby, and he was the outcast twin. It was only natural that they would find comfort with each other.Warning: Underage Incest, Sibling Incest. Read at your own risk. Please do not read if you can't handle mature sexual situations.





	1. Part 1: A Flickering Beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> I plan on making this a few parts long. I haven't decided how many yet! But it shouldn't be more than three, or four.

_Part 1: A Flickering Beginning._

* * *

 

> _We cannot force ourselves to love—or to withhold it._  
>  _At best, We can curb our actions._  
>  _The heart itself is beyond control.  
>  _ _That is its power, and it’s weakness._

* * *

 

He was so much older—with his scarlet hair that glistened most beautifully in the rays of the sunlight. His warm; strong hands that could easily lift me off the ground, and spin me as though I was completely weightless. But his age, and his broad, towering façade set him apart from me. And the soft, eclipsing way he would regard me after a day of degnoming our mother’s garden, set him apart from even his twin.

George was softer than Fred. Quieter. And he often was overshadowed by the witty, and quick personality of his brother. Always the one that was left out—pushed aside.

Never praised, or beloved quite like his outgoing twin. Only I could see the qualities that ran so deep in him. The gentility, and elegance when I would scrape my knee, and sob on the ground.

While Fred would laugh, George would swoop down, and hoist me into his arms. He would quiet my tears, and offer me sweets to only see me smile again.

When the winter nights were cold, I would find him; cuddle deep into his loving arms, and let him whisper tales of Father Christmas into my ear. He would whisper until we both would tire, and sleep would overcome our frames. Pulling us under its heavy clutches.

Fred would tease him when he finds us in the morning, but rather than push me away, he would only draw me closer, and promise me his lap whenever I had need of it. No one could understand him the way that I did.

It was unspoken.

A beautiful sentiment between us, that spanned years.

I would fall; he would pick me up. Always George.

When the biting words of Percy would find their way under my skin George would appear almost instantly, to soothe, and stand up for me.

I was his little princess.

That first time I felt his hand wander, I had worked myself into a frenzy. Sobbing because Ron had stolen my favorite stuffed toy. A patched rabbit that Mum had made just for me. Oh, was he jealous when she gave me the gift.

He got a jumper, and never let me forget it.

I was seven. George was ten.

It was a graze. He had pulled me onto his lap, and I had leaned back against him, letting him whisper soothing phrases into my ear. Promising to reunite me with Floppy. He’d find it, if it was the last thing he did. Oh, but it was the touch he gave. The brush of timid, untrained fingers that found their way up my skirt, to push against my panties. He rubbed; I shivered.

I felt pulsing down there. Right where my knickers met my lower petals. Then a twinge from a small little bud that rested, peeking out between my lips down there. It felt indescribably good. And in seconds, realizing it had worked, he was pushing harder, grinding against the skin.

Rubbing. Soothing words. Repeat.

Until I was calm, and complacent in his arms, shuddering from the aftermath of a pleasant burst that found its way through every inch of my frame. My nipples had budded, and peaked against my t-shirt; my fingers and toes had gone numb, and my eyes glossy.

I felt something hard poke me from underneath, but before I could explore the source of the prod he was straightening my skirt, and making a hasty reason to leave my side.

I was seven. I couldn’t possibly have understood then; the magnitude of what he had done.

It felt good, and I wanted him to do it again.

I tried later in the evening, plodding around with my inexperienced fingers, but didn’t come close to the sensations he built, and exploded in me.

I wanted more.

The next morning Floppy was next to my pillow, as though he never left.

He was absent from my side for a while. I remember his excuses to leave a room when I drew near, and his eyes that had always been warm, and so inviting had turned absent—shy.

I didn’t care what I had to do. I wanted it again.

The second time came, when he let me back in. Coming to my defense when Fred decided to make me the target of another of their pranks.

George had told him not to, but he put a dead rat on my pillow while I slept. I screamed, and cried upon awakening, and George’s warm embrace was there to calm my tears. Pushing, wiping at them softly upon my cherub cheeks. I reached for one of his hands, situating on my bed, and guided it where I wanted him to touch, when I calmed from sobs to tears.

He knew.

He went ridged. Froze for a few seconds.

But he rubbed me.

Another blinding release, more numbness, and bursts of pleasure throughout, and that hard; erect thing that prodded me from underneath his forest-green stripped pajama pants.

He tried to leave again, but this time I clung to his arm. I held his hand in place, and begged for him to stay.

He whispered, “I can’t.”

And I returned his sentiment, “I need you.”

It made him shudder. But he stayed for an unknown amount of time. Silent. Frozen. With that strange stiffness prodding me.

When he finally managed to find the will to pull away from me, I felt the absence almost instantly, like a cold, gripping hand of pain. Of fear. I didn’t want him to go away.

He stayed away this time.

Even when our siblings terrorized me, he didn’t come to the rescue. It was a year before he would look me in the eyes again. When he got his Hogwarts letter with Fred.

I hated that he would leave. I had known it was coming, but always believed it somehow would never actually happen. That he would never turn eleven, and would always be at the burrow.

I was wrong.

He got his school supplies, and proudly stood alongside his brother for a traditional portrait of their first year. The picture would be framed, and kept on the mantel alongside the others. How much jealousy seethed in me.

Regret. Sadness. Fear.

I had let the days pass, and had wasted them being fearful of pushing. Of attempting to understand the prickly feelings inside of me when he would hold me. The warmth when he had touched me. And the carefully masked expression he would provide me with now that those events had transpired.

It was the final night before he would ride on the Hogwarts Express. Wheel his already packed things to the barrier of nine and three quarters, and leave.

I pushed into his bed. After padding across the floor. Slid in, and ignored the snoring across his room from Fred. I could always tell them apart. George had a slightly different expression on his face, and carried himself less confidently.

“Wake up.” He shifted, but I realized he already had been awake.

His eyes regarded me, and he tried to push me away.

“Go back to your own bed.” He weakly attempted to dissuade my presence—that wouldn’t work.

I was determined.

“You’re leaving tomorrow…Please…Once more, George.” I made the plea inches from his face. I could see the struggle in his eyes. I could tell he was debating to pretend he did not know what I wanted. It had been a year.

A whole year, since the last touch.

He didn’t turn my back to face him this time.

No.

He looked me in the eyes, as he slid his hand down. Met with my warm, lower lips, and found there were no knickers. I was bare.

His fingers slid between the pleats. Pushed into my folds, and I noticed his shocked expression. His curiosity. Wondering how much I knew about what was transpiring. I saw many expressions pass across his features.

Shock. Concentration. Confusion. Denial.

The last was difficult to decipher. To my small, undeveloped mind, I hadn’t known such an emotion then, and he was barely grasping it himself.

Lust, coupled with longing.

It hung there, in the air, so thick it was almost suffocating.

I panted, and clutched to his shoulders. Bare, like they always were when he slept. He would overheat, and never wore a shirt to sleep. Even then.

I wanted to understand the blind pleasure. The endurance between us. I wanted to understand why I had always gotten warm, and fuzzy near him. Even before the touches. Before the yearning for more.

I exploded, and felt the weight of it all throughout my body. Flushed with heat, and color, I still clutched ahold of him. Still panted my lungs out, until air was easily grasped. He regarded me with silent pleas in his eyes.

And it was then that he lowered his face, and pushed his lips against mine. His lips were warm, and swollen. I tasted him. He tasted like cinnamon, and sugar. He didn’t kiss me, like mum, and dad did. But like nothing I had ever known.

It was gripping. Seizing my heart, and sending it soaring again. I clung hold of his shoulders, and he rolled. Pushing me into his mattress, letting his longer, slender frame engulf my short, slightly chubby one. That hardness pressed me again. This time between my thighs.

He pushed his hips, and made a grunt. I gasped. When that hard thing met my little button that had just exploded, I throbbed anew. Fresh, like he hadn’t just satiated me seconds before.

I cried, and he gasped.

There was a warmth. It soaked into his pants, and made a wet spot. That hardness throbbed, raw, and mighty. Like a beast that slumbered. I squeaked from the warm wetness I felt against my bare lower lips.

What had he done?

I was curious, but he offered me no answers. Instead with flaming cheeks he gave me one more kiss, and told me to go back to my bed.

Dazed, and confused—I did.

I could find no reason to argue—even though I was left with a new raging fire, and no way to put it out again.

He went to Hogwarts the next day. On the train. I tried to forget. Attempted to preoccupy myself with Ron, and chores at the burrow when I could. But Ron wasn’t close to me like George had been.

It wasn’t the same.

He didn’t pull me up, and offer me soothing words when I scraped my knee, or find Floppy for me, when he went astray. I was alone. I felt alone.

Time passed, Christmas came, and went, without the twins returning home. I played. I tried to forget. I wanted more—but I couldn’t go to him. So I did anything I could to ignore that weird, roaring fire he awoke in me that last night.

He slid his hands over my body. He kissed me. And I still didn’t understand what the kisses meant. Why they differed from family kisses. He was still my family.

When Summer came I glowed with excitement, and disappointment was quick to ensue. He didn’t meet my eyes. He barely hugged me. And at night, the twins door was locked.

He would strip off his shirt, and work in the garden during the day. Let the heat pour over his skin, and I noticed the lightness in him had faded. But I was the only one.

No one else saw. No one else cared as much as me.

The days I had longed for, were upon me, and yet I now was left to wonder why I anticipated them at all.  I was too young.

Nine to his Twelve.

I couldn’t understand the same things he did.

Still I wanted to. I needed to, now that he had awoke me to them.

He slipped up.

The day was hot, and he fell asleep with a cold, iced tea. I sought him out. A blue skirt hugging my hips. It was too short. I had sprung up this summer. Had a growth spurt, and now my clothes didn’t fit right, but there was no money our parents could allot for newer clothes. So I wore what I had.

The blue tank top only made it down to my midriff. Leaving me exposed around my belly. He noticed. I had seen a flicker in his eye, when he thought I wasn’t looking. I saw.

My George was still in there somewhere.

Sweet, kind, loving, George.

I knelt beside where he rested. His eyes closed. His breathing light, enough to tell me he really was asleep. I was curious.

I wanted to know what laid underneath his shorts. What sleeping beast came up to poke me when he touched. When we kissed. What had made a mess that night? Had he wet himself?

The thought cleared instantly. It had been a small damp, wetness. Nothing like the loss of bladder control that would puddle, and pool. No. It was different.

I slid down my hand, let it rest where I knew his part must lay. I rubbed. He moaned.

Shifted slightly as he rested, not yet awakening.

I rubbed again.

“G-Ginny.” My name emerged from his sleeping lips.

He had yet to awaken, but he still spoke out my name.

I felt it then. The slumbering monster. Hardening. Stiffening under my fingers. I squeezed, it pulsed, and finally he cracked open his eyes.

It took a minute. Maybe less, for him to become alert. To see that I was touching him. To see the damage I had done.

He pulled up, and spilled over the iced tea. It lay forgotten, making a puddle that soaked into the dirt, and grass below.

“Tell me why, you won’t love me now? Why don’t you want me?” My words were drawn out. Saddened by months of neglect. Of lost connection with him.

Coupled with years of lies. Shielded truths. Why did he shield the truth?

“I want to know why you kissed me that night. What happened to you?”

He didn’t answer. I saw in his eyes he didn’t know how. He was ashamed.  I saw it so clearly. As though he had been found with his hand down the cookie jar, when Mum said no more.

This ran deeper.

Deeper than a mistake. Deeper than his love for me.

He moved his hand to my arm, and I thought he would shove me away. Get up. Go on pretending we never touched. Never kissed. But he did the opposite.

We were shielded here. Shielded from our siblings, from prying eyes. The shrubbery made sure of it. And he yanked. With one firm pull I was astride his lap. Knees digging into the grass underneath. The scent of cinnamon, and sugar was thick on him. I realized it wasn’t his breath, but his scent itself. It was him.

He couldn’t answer with words. So he didn’t.

He kissed me with abandon, the way he had that night. Passion, lust, yearning. All at once, it came out. I didn’t understand. I just knew I wanted it. I wanted him.

I needed more.

I had always needed more.

Kisses built a fire inside of me. One that went right between my legs. I knew he loved me then. He didn’t need to tell me that he did. I knew.

He had held this back. Why? To protect me.

I answered my own question. He was always going to protect me.

Ever since my birth he was close by. A constant protector.

I realized now, he would even protect me from himself. From this confusing temptation. This sensation that I couldn’t quite grasp. But it wasn’t intended for us. It wasn’t intended for anyone so young.

He always called me little one. His little one.

So little.

I fought with his lips, kissed, swelled, and pushed my tongue to battle his. I understood these kisses were mum, and dad’s kind of kisses. The kind they shared together, but not with us kids.

He groped the bare skin on my waist, dragged greedy fingers over the skin. Pressed those same inexperienced fingers back between my thighs. Found my knickers, and drove them up between my lower lips. I whimpered, as he grazed my button.

It always alerted me to how much I didn’t know.

These touches were out of this world.

He was everything.

“More. I want more.” I managed to plead with him.

Piercing green eyes met mine. He wasn’t innocent to my intention. He gave in.

I saw it.

“I don’t want to hurt you….” It was a warning, because I knew he couldn’t stop.

Not now.

I had asked for something more, and he was going to give it.

He pushed me into the grass, and I felt the dry, scratchy surface on my exposed back, and thighs. He spread me wide, after tearing down my knickers. Discarded the slightly wet things, and slid his fingers down there. One pressed into my entrance, and I jolted. I had never thought to put a finger up my hole.

Never known what it was for. But I knew he would show me.

He was my big brother. He was my loving brother.

He was George.

“Once. Only once.” He didn’t offer me a chance to answer, before he was kissing me fiercly again. I felt his hand fidgeting after retracting from between my thighs. Unzippng, unlatching his trousers. And then; I sqeaked.

His hardness, it was pressed to that hole. I realized just before he thrust what he intended.

It pushed, and tore me open. I felt it.

That hard, unyielding piece of him. It was unforgiving. It was harsh. And it hurt.

I scratched at his shoulders, digging my nails into the skin. I was too little. I understand what he was protecting me from.

This…this pain.

I screeched. I sobbed, and he stopped moving. He stopped kissing, he stroked my cheek. He kissed my hair. He did everything to stop my sobs, but they’d started. I didn’t understand. He couldn’t explain, and it all felt like fire, and hurt. It blinded me. And made me wonder why this was more.

“Ginny….?” He asked, and I sobbed more, unable to grasp a word. I was trying to steady myself. I wanted to think less. And know more.

 “Shh…I will stop…” He offered, but I remembered asking for this. For more.

I didn’t want him to go away again. I didn’t want this to end.

“No.” I am a Weasley. Weasley’s fight through their pain.

And I did.

He moved again, and I flinched, but the pain began to ease. It subsided, and soon was replaced by that fire. That longing again.

He flicked his thumb over my button, unfounded, and pleasure burst everywhere. I withered, and whimpered underneath him. I felt him rut deeper, and deeper, and then he stilled. And I felt warm wetness shoot inside of me. Coating my insides.

The same wetness that had coated his pajama pants a year ago.

It was thick, and wet. I moaned.

He panted, and kept me close. Buried deep inside, without any reason to retract. He seemed winded from his rutting, and the exhaustion overcame us both.

I fell asleep. We both did.

When I awoke, my knickers were back in place, and he was gone. My thighs ached; peppered with bruises, and my knickers on further examination had blood, and juices on them. Thick, white juices. I couldn’t walk straight for days.

He didn’t let me near him again for three years.


	2. Part 2: A Sweltering Continuance.

_Part 2: A Sweltering Continuance._

* * *

 

> _Love that we cannot have is the one_  
>  _that lasts the longest,_  
>  _hurts the deepest,_  
>  _and feels the strongest._

* * *

 

Every day without him was another day of misery. I felt it most thoroughly those first few days; weeks. He had eclipsed himself over my heart, shielding it from everyone else.

All I could see was him. All I wanted; was him.

I finally understood the monster he held back. This delicate beast that could take, and take until I was in so much pain, and pleasure—I was dazed.

But somehow, I still wanted more.

Even though he had pushed inside. He had paired us in such an intricate manner—I couldn’t help but to wonder how to make him succumb again.

He wouldn’t look me in the eyes again. That shame I saw was eating away at him. I wished he would talk to me. Help me understand everything that happened.

But he didn’t.

He avoided me.

Ignored the beast inside of him that hungered for what I did. Explosive pleasure.

I tried for the rest of that summer to get him alone again—He made sure  I never had the chance.

He concealed himself in his bedroom, or stuck by Fred’s side like a clever magnet. Always diverting me.

Making certain I didn’t have an opening. So I gave up.

The ache was unendurable now that he had been inside of me. I felt the twinge between my thighs. I slid my fingers over the wet folds, and retracted several minutes later more frustrated than I started.

It was cruel to give me a glimpse of something more, and in the next flash tear it all away again.

But his kindness, his love, was what kept him away. I knew it was.

And that is what kept me from feeling anything but love for him; regardless of his distance.

He went back to Hogwarts in the fall, and I was left behind again, with Ron.

We would play wizard’s chess, and banter about what Hogwarts would be like once we finally got our letters, but it still wasn’t the same as when George would be with me.

George with his strong, muscled arms, lifting me up to spin me in circles. Gone were those days, where we were innocent, and so carefree.

We had created an excuse to tear apart our hearts.

His was shame.

Mine was fear.

The long days of playing games with Ron, came to an end, as the summer was once again upon us. But unlike the year before, I couldn’t find a gap to speak to George alone.

The few words I did share with him, were insgnifigant, sibling talk.

‘Hello’s’, and ‘Goodnights.’ Anything so that no one would know we weren’t talking.

More specifically—He wasn’t talking to me.

It hurt.

To spend my nights alone. To toil in agonizing fire that was a constant whenever I thought of him.

It burned so bright in me. I wanted to cry. To scream.

Sometimes I did both.

On the last day of Summer vacation he surprised me with a gift.

“Here. Just something to think of me, while I am gone, Yeah?” He thrust the box at me unceremoniously, after waking me from slumber at the crack of dawn.

I furrowed my eyebrows, having not spoken to him in private in so long.

I beamed, opening the box, finding an enchanted locket. It would only open at my touch. It was infused with binding blood magic.

Inside was an inscription:  ‘To my little one.’

My eyes filled with tears, and a hologram of his face appeared whenever it was opened.

I flung my arms around him. I sobbed into his shoulder.

And he held me, but didn’t speak.

He grazed my hair with his hand, and kissed the top of my head.

It was his extension of an olive branch. Of hope.

I don’t know why he gave it to me. And he didn’t explain himself. He was always so quiet, and so shy. I wished he would kiss me again.

I wanted it so much in that moment, but before I could ask he was already out my bedroom door.

I wore it religiously. All through the year.

When summer came again, Ron received his Hogwarts letter, and reveled in his own school experience starting, and I grew disheartened.

I was not looking forward to a year where I would be left alone, with none of my siblings for company.

I felt so sick about it.

So left out.

George avoided me as usual, never acknowledging the gift around my neck, but on occasion our eyes would meet, and he would offer a slight smile before shifting them back away.

God I missed his touches.

I was ten. He was thirteen.

I felt the weight of our age difference, more thoroughly when he sprouted up to an even greater height.

He was growing taller; lankier than before.

I caught myself staring too long at his muscled arms, as he stretched out in the sun outside with his twin. He was always with Fred.

They were closer than ever, as we became more estranged.

Why did he have to protect me?

I didn’t want to be protected.

When school began again, I watched them all board the train. Percy, Fred, George, Ron…and the ever famous Harry Potter.

I didn’t care.

I just wished George could stay, and we could return to those moments of bliss between us.

He suppressed those moments, and made it feel like I had imagined them all.

But I remember the feelings, and I know that I didn’t imagine them.

The year dragged on, worse than the others. I was terribly sullen, with only Mum, and occasionally Dad for company, I had no happy moments to cling to.

Mum was always too busy to take much time to notice me, and Dad was rarely home. He was always doing raids at the ministry, and didn’t return home until well past dinner.

I felt the loneliness ebbing in. The isolation from everyone, and everything.

I wrote to George. Just once.

He ignored it, but I still wrote:

‘ _I miss you. It is exceedingly lonely here at the burrow._

_Time passes more slowly each day until I feel I may_

_completely go mad. Why won’t you touch me anymore_

_George? Why can’t we kiss like we did before? I wish you_

_would answer me.  I wish you would stop trying to_

_protect me. I love you. Please, let me in again._

_Tell me what you are thinking. I beg of you._

_Love,_

_Ginny._ ’

Not only was it ignored come summer he resumed his normal schedule of ignoring me, but Fred let something slip at breakfast.

“George has his eye on a witch!”

The sentence was quick, and brought something to the daylight that bubbled, and raged inside of me.

I thought maybe it was a joke, but I saw the truth of it in George’s eyes. He didn’t retort, was scarlet in the cheeks, and at a loss for words.

He quickly shot a glance at me, but the damage was done.

It stung. Worse than being ignored.

Somehow I knew he was looking for my replacement. Someone to dull the ache he made with me, and now refused to tame.

He ripped a hole through my heart.

I stood from the table, and stormed off.

I didn’t try to talk to him for the rest of the summer. Especially not when the witch in question came to the burrow. And I saw him kissing her the way he kissed me.

Saw his hands wander, his lips fight for dominance. I wanted her dead.

I wanted to hex her.

But I didn’t have my wand yet. Didn’t know any spells, and besides, I couldn’t have used it outside of school regardless. I would face expulsion before I even began.

I cried myself to sleep.

Every night that summer.

Every. Single. Night.

I thought of that other girl entwined with him, on the grass the way I had been. I thought of him buried inside of her entrance. Making promises—Giving her a locket.

I reached up, and yanked the chain from my neck, remembering I was wearing it. I threw it in the corner of my room.

It could stay there.

He ripped my heart out.

He took my happiness. My innocence.

And he let my heart die.

I couldn’t wait to go to Hogwarts. To make friends, to try to forget the burning fire, George left inside of me, when he gave me more.

I desperately longed for a clear understanding of what had transpired, but knew I would never have it.

Not so long as he kept his face mashed with that other witch. Bertha. I believe that is her name.

As I arrived on the train, took in the sights, enveloped myself in the vast school landscape I found myself blending in.

Right into Gryffindor, where I was sorted cleanly, and quickly.

The year however, became a blur. I have gaping holes in my memories, unable to remember much, as I sought more, and more solace in the diary of Tom Riddle.

I saw the words disappear as I wrote.

I spoke to him of my woes; of George.

I wanted someone to explain what had transpired, and this diary—It knew so much.

Tom spoke of George. Of what we had done.

We had committed incest.

The shame stemmed from my petite stature, but also my sibling relation to him. He shouldn’t love me, because it was forbidden.

That thought—for some reason, had never crossed my mind before.

Sex. Intercourse.

That was what we had done when he pushed his hardness into me.

All along that is what I had been asking him for, when I asked for more. Tom Riddle shed light on my dark situation, and encouraged me to fall under his trances.

The year was gone, and I had nearly died. Losing weeks then months of time, in-between.

When Harry destroyed the diary, saving my life, it was the first time I had actually realized what it would be like to die.

Awakening in the hospital wing, after my parents came to visit me, I saw a figure hovering over me.

It was George.

Eyes wet with tears, there was a deep sorrow spreading over his features. I had never seen him weep like this before. He was so broken. So flushed with scarlet coloring on his cheeks.

He had always been a strong pair of arms to hold me when I cried. He had never needed comfort in return.

He had never asked for it from me. I had believed him infallible.

With consciousness looming I reached for his hand, unable to see one so strong; so broken.

“I almost lost you.” The words came out of his lips. Poured out, rather.

His voice cracked, and tears fell.

I could see the façade he had built over the past three years crumbling. All of the walls he put up, knocked down, allowing the vulnerability to flow in.

I sat up on the rickety hospital bed, hearing the springs groan in response; they were ignored.

I lifted my arms, and pulled his towering, lanky frame down onto the mattress.

“You didn’t lose me. I’m here….I have always been, right here.” I vowed to him.

I suddenly needed him to understand everything.

To realize I wasn’t so little anymore. I was a student here, just like him.

I was just as capable of loving him, as he was of loving me. I ignored the memories of Bertha’s lips on his. How their bodies must have entwined like ours once had.

Instead I mustered the courage to wipe his tears, and kiss him the way we had kissed before.

The way I pleaded for him to kiss me in that desperate letter. How I longed for him to kiss me, every day since he stopped.

He didn’t retract like I expected. Didn’t run away.

Instead he was pulling me closer, not leaving an inch of space between us. He fought for dominance with my lips, and won. Pushing his tongue into my mouth. Letting me taste him.

His scent was the same cinnamon, and sugar it had been before, but it was now laced with sweat, and salty tears.

I tasted his tongue, tasted his tears as they rolled down to meld with our kiss.

I didn’t care. I wanted all of him.

His vulnerabilities. His heartbreaks. All of it.

All of him.

“I know, George. I know everything.” I whispered, between broken kisses.

He seemed perplexed at first, took a moment to process, through his puffy eyes, but when the knowledge registered he spoke himself.

“Then you understand why I couldn’t let it continue.” He whispered, “Why I had to do something to break your heart.”

I felt the tearing of my heartstrings at the mention of Bertha.

My fingers tightened on his shirt, and I let my nails dig slightly into his shoulders.

“Don’t do it again. Please…Don’t push me away again. I could not survive it once more.” It was dirty.

A horrible trick, when he was so mangled, and messed up inside from believing he lost me—but I knew it wouldn’t work any other time.

Only now.

More tears fell onto my skin. He didn’t speak, didn’t answer. He unbuttoned my nightshirt. Let it fall open, and began a trail of kisses, and tears up my belly, between my breasts. He let me tremble under him.

He had me aching between my thighs without a single touch to my slit. He was more experienced now. He wasn’t fumbling like he had the first few times. He didn’t show confusion, or hesitation—only lust, coupled with love.

He tugged on my pajama pants. Let them fall against the sheets, and I was left bare for him to witness. Naked. Vulnerable.

I reached up, to shed his shirt. Then down to unbuckle, and shed his trousers.

If I was vulnerable then we both needed to be.

He pried apart my thighs, pressing with his hands he pushed them deep into the bed. I was splayed like a bitch in heat. Left open, and the scent of arousal permeated the air from between my thighs.

He made a low growling noise. So indistinct I almost didn’t hear it. Then he forced his lips to mine. Guided his hardness to my entrance, and pushed.

I didn’t tear this time, but I did stretch to accommodate him.

It had been three years since he tore me open. Three years since I bled for him, and experienced ecstasy this way.

It was like being a virgin all over again. Almost as though I was untouched. It was such a tight fit I heard him panting into the kiss.

Struggling to hold it together, before he was thrusting. And he wasn’t soft. Nor gentle.

This was need. Passion. This was love, and shame.

There were too many layers to the emotions he was letting off. He was aroused—like me.

He was pulsing in every vessel of his being, I could feel it.

Our hearts were beating as one, and he was clutching at the fabric of the sheets underneath us. Looking, searching avidly for any leverage he could muster.

Anything to thrust deeper, push harder, gain more traction. Anything.

“Gin…God…I promise. Never again. I promise.” He was all but pleading to the heavens.

I felt his hot breath on my lips, as he spoke those words. I kissed him again.

I fought for dominance, and won in his distraction with the sensaitions. I would take him at his word.

I would make sure he didn’t break it this time. I couldn’t bear it if he didn’t mean it.

I scratched my nails down his back, leaving marks.

I wanted him to remember he was mine. And I was his.

He couldn’t descend into shame again. He couldn’t leave me alone in this frenzy of insatiable fire again.

And as my nails dug in a second time, I felt him release.

Warm liquid pumped into me. Hot breaths were panted against my sweaty neck. Cooling the heated skin.

I trembled as I clenched around him. Exploding as he did. Feeling the fire satiate itself within me. There was no salvaging our morals.

We needed each other more.

I didn’t care that this would have to be a secret.

I could maintain a secret—I already had for years.

What I couldn’t ever again withstand; was the loss of him.

And I could tell by the look in his eyes tonight, that he couldn’t withstand—the loss of me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I have quite a bit of muse for this pairing tonight! I might finish it sooner than expected! Please let me know if you are enjoying this! Reviews are always loved, and welcome!_


	3. Part 3: A Steamy Movement.

_Part 3: A Steamy Movement._

* * *

 

> _You are a torrential downpour_
> 
> _Of all my forbidden longings…_

 

* * *

 

For the first time in years; things were almost as they were before. The summer had come, and the heat along with it. Encouragement was now a constant from me, to him. I overcame the fears that had tangled me up before.

He tried not to shy from me. I saw a bit of a struggle—of hesitance, in his eyes, but he complied.

He would bend, break, under the strain of my touches, and he would let out his frustrations between my thighs.

The day after our hospital wing tryst, he ended things with Bertha.

It was abrupt, and it broke her heart, but he was mine.

I was secretly entertained by the other Gryffindor female’s tears. It should have pained me. I knew what the loss of George could do. But it didn’t.

Perhaps I am cold, heartless, but she touched the only boy I am capable of loving.

I feel resigned in my hatred for her, and always will be.

The sun’s rays would beat down on us, as we would play outside. He taught me to ride a broom, let me join in, when he would practice for Quidditch in the yard with Fred.

I wasn’t lonely anymore. I had him back, and I proudly returned the locket  he gifted me, to my neck, where it belonged.

I kiss him when we are alone, and that rarely dormant fire will spring to life in that instant, engulfing me whole until he puts it out with his hand, or his hardness.

Now that we were in agreement, our hands could barely be kept from each other.

He would have me in secret, wherever he could.

Behind the shrubbery, near one of the towering trees in our backyard was our favorite spot. Because it was the site of our first time.

It was special, and had sentimental meaning to us both.

Sometimes night would creep upon us, and he would find his way to my room. Climb into my bed, rumple the covers, and make me his.

Our need was as insatiable as the summer heat. He would whisper sweet nothings into my ears on the nights he was feeling doubly romantic.

Romantic. Kind.

George was a vast many things at once.

When he was inside of me, I felt like the world was split wide open. Like every raw nerve inside of me was bare for him to see; to play with unchallenged.

He promised he was never with Bertha this way; I didn’t care—I wanted as much of him as I could have, as often as I could have him.

I left scars on his back, from how often my nails would dig in. It was my form of punishment for Bertha. But I never outright chastised him for dating her.

He would curl around me, cupping his hand around one of my slightly budding breasts, flicking the bud that stiffened at his touch; whilst we slept; in my bed.

Always long after we had tired ourselves past comprehension. He would sometimes have me five, and six times in a day.

Still that wasn’t enough.

Years of neglect from him needed to be made up for. We were both young, stricken with vitality. Pushed to the limits by our urgency.

He would drag me into his arms when he settled on the couch. Like old times we stayed so close. No longer did I fill with dread when he was near.

There was only hope, and an endless feeling of sensations that exploded in me.

I noticed how broad his shoulders were now, how long his legs. He was shaping into a man, while I was still little. Still shorter than him by half. Made fun of easily by our siblings. Poked, and prodded by the others.

He wouldn’t stand for their unkind words about me. Just like it had been before.

Fred seemed to notice our reattachment to one another. I had an idea he had grown fond of having his twin close to only him. But he didn’t attempt to thwart our rekindled togetherness.

I would see flickers of something akin to jealousy in his eyes on occasion, however.

I knew instantly when George wanted me, because his ever-blossoming erection would prod me from underneath. Alerting me to the defined need.

It’s pulsing throb, was my alert that we needed to find a sheltered place, and quickly.

We had each other in almost every imaginable place in the burrow. On the grass, in each of our beds, on the kitchen table, in the closets—everywhere.

When the need arose he made me his. Pushing, prying my knickers aside to sheath his erection inside of me.

He was developing still all over his body. Even his manhood was growing in length, and girth. I noticed when he pushed inside of me.

There was more resistance than usual.

I was twelve. George was fifteen.

He was becoming a man, and I was stinted as a little girl, my body wasn’t developed yet.

Sometimes I still saw shame in his eyes, when he had me. It still lingered like a sore thumb, but he promised—and George doesn’t break his promises.

Summer came to an end far too quickly. The days whizzed by, some I was so exhausted from our nights of impassioned pleasure; I slept through.

The Hogwarts Express was boarded too hastily, and I found a compartment with the twins.

I slept on George’s shoulder, his arm lazily curled around me. The conversation had been light, and my heart—for once—full.

The days were boring, filled with uncomfortable studies in potions, and defensive training. But the nights were long, and spent in George’s bed.

He would cast a protective charm on the curtains; so no one would hear when I screamed his name.

Word spread that his heart was closed off this year. None could understand why George had made himself unavailable.

No talk of witches he wanted to date, not even conversations with his housemates.

He was faithful to me. But no one could know.

It continued the same, for almost two years.

Our days spent together consisted of secret kisses between classes, and nighttime trysts in his bedroom.

One night in particular we didn’t even make it to a bedroom, but made love in the common room.

I began to develop. My breasts sprung out on my chest, the nipples hardened buds, that he often would suck to erection. Butt rounded, and hips wider-set, I reveled in my slightly taller stature, and blooming skin.

Once I was less dainty he no longer had such shame in his eyes, like he did before. He no longer insisted that he felt dirty when we were finished, and tangled together.

His dirty illusions came with my young age. By fourteen, I looked nearly fully grown. I wasn’t so breakable. So innocent.

I knew the words for the things we did. The correct name for his male parts. For every sex act we partook in. And I knew him.

But my fourth year was his last, and with Umbridge making the school nearly unbearable ( and our trysts unfeasible ) I saw the light slowly leaving his eyes.

The room of requirement offered us some alone time.

Long enough to share kisses, and have a quick tryst before parting ways once more.

Now there was never enough time.

But things grew worse. When Dumbledore’s Army was found out in the room of requirement I saw that last bit of light leave his eyes.

Tormented by the hours spent scribbling on paper with the torture quills, we both had the scars on our arms for hours thereafter.

At night in his bed I would kiss the open wound better. As he would kiss mine. I spent nights sobbing in his arms. Letting soothing fingers toy with the strands of my hair.

The last night I had with him, before he left was sweet. He went slowly.

Dipping kisses everywhere he could. My neck, between my breasts, over the divot where my neck, met my shoulder—everywhere. He promised it would be better soon.

Promised he would never let me go.

We made promises of love. Even the locket that still hung around my neck, burned with the proof of our love that night.

He went soft, slow—sensual. In a way I hadn’t seen from him before.

Lately he had been so untamed—so out of control, but this was different.

He was different.

I spread myself for him, and he made me cum too many times to count. I was exhausted; drained. As was he.

When I awoke it was with the sun, and I was hasty to return to my own bed. I felt the absence of him strongly in my heart. It tugged, and pulled me back towards him, but I didn’t return.

By that evening he was gone. Their brooms stolen back from Umbridge, they left in a frenzy of flare, and noise. Fireworks, and tricks galore.

All of their experiments, and pranks leading them to yearn to open their own joke shop.

He didn’t tell me goodbye. He was just gone.

I felt that absence every single day that I walked through those halls.

I missed his kisses. Even the simplicity of his touch. I missed him.

I missed curling up on his lap, letting him whisper little soft nothings into my ear until time felt like it stopped, revolved solely around us.

I mourned his absence, and ate so very little.

He wrote; but letters weren’t the same as his arms.

Why couldn’t he stay for me?

It was selfish, and I didn’t want him to suffer, but I still wanted him with me.

Needed him here.

I had become dependent on his presence, I was faltering, drowning without his arms to pull me upright. There was no release from this hell.

There was only me.

Only the absence of him everywhere.

When Summer finally came, and the warmth of his arms coiled around me again, it was only then I could relax.

When he saw me work myself into the same kind of frenzy I had as a little girl, he pulled me astride his lap.

Elusive touch, pushing, prodding my most sensitive parts, until I was completely at his mercy. I came in my knickers for him.

I felt the burst, as he calmed my fiery temper with touch, before he gave me himself.

Only when I was calmed down enough did he finally apologize between the bed sheets. With my legs like jelly from his rubbing of my cunt, my thighs fell wide open for him, when he beckoned for them to.

He was inside of me, like a flame, and heat built, and burst again within my lower abdomen. It was unfair what he could do. The knowledge he had over my frame.

How he could make even the most horrid of arguments—subside.

The fear was building. Voldemort was out there somewhere, waiting to kill our friends. And he seemed fearless through all of it.

Making himself the center of attention with his twin.

Percy had been lost last year to the wrong side of things, but somehow the twins remained at home.

George lived in the same room he always had, and I knew it was for me.

To ease my unsettlement about potentially being abandoned for a second time. I was afraid to wake up, and find he left me again.

After the first lapse of years, he had to know I couldn’t handle it a second time.

So he stayed within reach.

Running the joke shop by day, and warming my bed, by night.

He was so calm. So collected.

God I loved him.

I didn’t want to return to Hogwarts. Suddenly the place I had been so prepared, and desperate to return, became a prison away from George.

My heart ached when the Summer ended, and our nights of comfort seeking came to an end.

The year began, and I was lonely. Again.

Voldemort grew stronger, and Hogwarts became a place run by strict rules. George couldn’t have come to see me, no matter the circumstances.

I felt the absence of him everywhere.

In the common room. In my bed. I felt the silence; it ate at my insides.

I stayed up most nights, sleepless, and alone.

George didn’t write—he knew the risks of having the owls intercepted were too great.

We would be disowned, banished from our household if any found out about our disgraceful nights together.

I solemnly went through the movements of the year. Doing my schoolwork, spending my sleepless nights in tears. There was only him.

Now there was a gaping hole where he had been.

I practically jumped at the chance to return home at Christmas break.

Almost immediately upon my arrival at the burrow we found a way to be alone.

He apologized for his absence, for his lack of letters—but he was protecting me.

Always protecting me.

And I knew already.

He had lifted me, pressed until my back met with bed sheets. Then kissed me.

He was brisk in his movements, not bothering the trivialities of shedding clothes, he merely spread my thighs. Freed his prick, and shoved his way into my cunt. Sliding my knickers to the side.

It was fast. There was no love making. Just need. Urgency.

Uncontrolled passion. He didn’t bother with gentility any longer. I was nearly a woman, and he was a man.

He wasn’t a boy now. He didn’t have the curiosities—the impulses of a young boy. But those of a warm-blooded male.

He was almost animal, now. There was no slowing him. I still made claw marks down his back, and he was accustomed to it. He even encouraged me. Egging me on with quick words.

“I missed you.” He whispered.

“Show me, how much.” And he did.

Pushes, pulls, there was no need for comfort. Just lust.

On Christmas Eve he had me drawn upon his lap. Warming my arms with his long fingers he let times of old come to life once more. He whispered stories of Father Christmas into the shell of my ear. And for a moment I glimpsed into the past. Recalling the younger, naïve pair of us, doing just the same.

Only I was nearly too big for his lap, and far too old to believe in such stories.

“We can’t keep on this way, you know.”

I wished he hadn’t said it. My heart could have handled it if given just one more day to prepare.

My eyes deadened as they found the licking flames of fire in the fireplace. The crackling sound had been all the noise I heard when his stories had come to an end.

“What way?” I played coy. Wanted to believe he meant something different than I believed.

He couldn’t mean what I thought.

Not again.

“We can’t keep making love. We have to stop. Before Fred finds out, or our other family. I believe some of them suspect something.” I was hurt.

I know that he doesn’t mean to hurt me, but he does.

“We don’t make love anymore. We haven’t since you left Hogwarts.” I didn’t look back. Only forward; into the flames.

He sighed, a deep rumbling thing that shook my back, where it touched his chest.

“Have I hurt you?” His voice was soft, trembling. Almost fearful, and I regretted my lash out immediately. I had wanted to give him a tiny little bit of hurt. Just so he could understand what it felt like.

“No. But it’s never soft. Not enough to constitute love making.” I muttered bitterly. I was fighting back tears, and I didn’t want him to see.

“Do you prefer softer?” His breath was hot on my neck, as he dipped his head to whisper in my ear. One hand slid over my breast, down to rest on my stomach. Twirling patterns on my skin.

I fought to contain my tears.

“Don’t….” He stilled.

“Don’t touch me like this…Don’t make me need it again, and leave me alone with that ache. Please George…You promised you wouldn’t.” He knew about his promise.

He knew.

But he stilled his hand anyway.

“It’s for the best, Gin. You know it is.”

I hated his ability to wound me. He was trying to protect me. Like always. But it hurt.

Just like always.

I pushed away his hand, and turned as I stood over him.

“Best for who?” I snapped, but I didn’t wait for a response.

I stormed up to my room.

The absence of him burned, worse than it ever had the first time. When he kissed me. When he made me his own, I had taken each time for granted.

I thought he wouldn’t break his promise. But he had been a fifteen year old boy, and I just a naïve twelve year old girl.

He’d never broken one before.

I isolated myself when I returned to Hogwarts. Ignored the thoughts of ending my life. Of making it so that I didn’t have to endure this pain anymore.

It was a selfish construct of thoughts. Primarily crafted by my brain so that I would have a way out.

I needed a way out. The world was collapsing around me, and by the end of the year, Dumbledore laid dead, and the world as I knew it; had disappeared.

Summer was filled with fear. I knew Ron, would leave with Harry, and Hermione in the fall to begin the hunt for Horcruxes, and I didn’t want to return to Hogwarts. It would be a terrifying new place, and I wasn’t prepared.

Not when I had the memories of George to contend with. I missed him. He left a hole behind when he took himself away again.

I loathed him for being able to make me love him, and then pulling that ability away again.

Ripping out my heart, and leaving me with nothing.

He was so avid at it.

So unbelievably good.

He helped move Harry to the burrow. I didn’t like that he volunteered, but once he set his mind to something, there was no stopping him.

He almost died. I saw the absence of one of his ears, the blood that pooled from the hexed off thing, and I couldn’t help myself. I sobbed over him like a child.

Every terrible thing that I had ever imagined came to light. I felt little again. I felt helpless. He could have died, and he almost did.

But he didn’t let my mourning twist his decision.

He didn’t let me come to bed with him. Told me, it was for the best. He lost an ear, but nothing had changed. Not for him.

The way he had so easily cast me aside, wounded my ego. Reminded me that I wasn’t good enough anymore. Our shared nights; the steamy sex—it no longer mattered.

He walled his heart off to me, and I couldn’t break the barriers again.

My own stubbornness, and exhaustion pushed it along.

I didn’t fight for him, when he made the decision. I would always regret that most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all are enjoying this as much as I am enjoying writing it!


	4. Part 4: A Devastating Combination.

_Part 4: A Devastating Combination._

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

> _They slipped briskly into an_
> 
> _Intimacy from which they_
> 
> _never recovered._

 

 

* * *

 

 

How does one continue on when they lose the love of their life?

I asked myself that question every day since that Christmas Eve he broke things off. So cavalier. So easily.

He appeared unaffected, even with an ear lost. There was a gaping hole in the side of his head. His hearing was affected, on that side.

Though I feared my return to Hogwarts—I went regardless.

It was better than moping around the burrow. The awkwardness between us had grown to unbearable levels.

He once more stuck to Fred’s side, and barely spoke two words to me at all.

He promised. Then broke it.

I learned that his promises couldn’t be trusted. I learned that he wasn’t the perfect man I made him out to be before.

I was sixteen. He was nineteen.

It took me this long to figure that out.

School was a dark place. Covered by shadows, and impacted heavily by the loss of Dumbledore.

The once bright halls were, shadowed, and unkind. The teachers appeared fearful in their teachings. The Carrows monitored classrooms.

I took more punishment spells than I could count. Each bruise, every scar left behind helped me focus on a different kind of pain—than a broken heart.

I wanted to forget the sacred memories of being tangled in George’s arms.

All those sweet, carefully placed promises were tainted now.

 _“You’ll always be mine.”_ I wasn’t.

He stole sweet kisses. Now they were lined with poisonous memories.

Our parents couldn’t know about us. I had understood the reasoning. I always knew why—but I didn’t want to have a lifetime without him instead.

But a lifetime I now had.

Another day; another torturous spell was cast on my skin. I became their favorite little toy.

I heard them talk. Listened to the laughs. Once porcelain skin, turned rough with scars. Maybe I wanted to be less pretty.

I wanted to be what I felt on the inside. Ugly. Undesirable. Unlovable.

How else could he do it? How else could he really have ended things?

At night I took to cuddling with Floppy. I wasn’t little anymore; I had no excuses, but the soft patchwork bunny reminded me of happier times.

Of George.

Of how he made the patchwork bunny appear on my pillow that morning after Ron took him.

Where did he find him? How long had he searched just to see me smile?

I wanted that George back.

The George that told me stories; that loved with no conditions. Almost like our parents. Always with arms outreached to me.

I mourned that George. Soft, gentle, loving, George.

Kissed by the sunlight, with flaming red hair; knowing green eyes. I wanted him back.

The days wore on. And blended together. Time elapsed, every day was bitter. Light no longer had any hold here.

I had no solace, and no distractions. Just pain. I picked at my scars, let my skin bleed, burst. Scarlet red would paint my skin. I wanted the scars to worsen.

Searing pain from open wounds were my only attempted distractions; from him.

Anything not to think about how he was doing. How he sits in a chair, calm, and collected. Hands folded over his stomach, complacent. Quiet. The last day at the burrow I remembered that image of him. Hole in his ear, lost in thought. About what, I didn’t ask.

I didn’t dare.

He was always so quiet; always so mysterious.

But he wasn’t mine to ask anymore.

I still wear the locket. I know I shouldn’t but I want to.

It burns with my love for him. I feel the warmth press into my chest, and that ache becomes so heavy within me.

I discovered a secret. Infused into the locket—were memories.

I had taken it off. Held it one specifically rough night, when tears wouldn’t cease rolling down my cheeks. It felt like it was speaking to me. Talking.

I tapped it with my wand. Felt it pry open. And a burst of images came through my mind. Spectacular images.

His memories. Of me.

Beautifully constructed, hovering before my eyes. A hologram. Like his picture inside, I saw his point of view.

The first time he touched me. The longing he had that night. Hand down his trousers, tugging on himself until he found relief. Seed pouring into his boxers, panting breaths of yearning. There was more. His fingers running through my hair, his whispers of stories into my ears. Hours of lovingly holding me on his lap.

The visions were shifting, scattered; all uneven.

The color in his world when he saw me playing in the long grass outside. Giggling, teasing him. I must have been no more than four.

I beckoned for him to join me. We ran; played until the sun lowered in the sky. His stronger arms around my middle, pulled me into the grass below.

I giggled. He kissed my hair. I fell asleep in his arms; he carried me to my bed.

More shifting. More flashes.

His days spent without me. Touching himself. Imagining me, there beside him when he did. There were so many memories. So many images.

My eyes glistened with tears. I wiped them, and closed the locket.

I didn’t want to see anymore.

He loved me then. As more.

He doesn’t love me that way now. He can’t possibly.

I returned the locket to my neck, felt the burn of long forgotten memories. The heat warmed me, and I lowered to lay back against my bed.

Sleep overcame me, and time pushed forward.

The days dragged to months. No word was give on Harry’s whereabouts, but he was out there; somewhere. Hunting Horcruxes. Attempting to end the fear that had spread to every corner of the world.

He was out there. Voldemort. He was moving rapidly; killing in his wake.

He never came to Hogwarts. Never traipsed these halls, despite Snape being here. Death Eaters running the castle.

As the year began to come full circle I felt the change in the air. A shift. I didn’t go home for Christmas; I stayed.

I didn’t want to face George. Not now that I saw his intimate memories.

I couldn’t help but wonder if he transcribed them within the locket for me to find. Or if our once unbreakable connection, drew them to me.

This gift had always remained a mystery. The locket was unexpected. Given at a time we weren’t speaking. Yet, his pride when I wore it, had been so clear.

He loved me.

But did he still?

I still pushed my fingers down below. Tried to find pleasure, but I never could; not in the way George gave to me. No matter how long I rubbed my sensitive bud. I couldn’t make myself cum.

I let the pain overtake me instead. Drag me deeper into myself than before.

It wasn’t until the spring that Harry returned. Dirtied. Cuts, and scars everywhere—to announce his need to find the final horcrux hidden in the castle walls.

I felt no hope that this war would end. And as the battle for the castle ensued, I fought. I tried. I cast curses. I hid when I could.

Bodies fell all around me. Some dead; some cursed.

I couldn’t bear to see their faces. I searched the castle for George. My George.

He came back when Harry called. As did the rest of the Order.

I hid, and searched. Tried desperately to hunt for him. And stay alive in the process.

It wasn’t until I rounded a mostly abandoned corridor that I saw him. Hunched over a lifeless figure.

Sobs. Tears.

I had never seen him inconsolable. Never seen him cry like this. Not even that night in the hospital wing; that he came to my bedside.

I followed the trail of other bodies. Ignored the pieces of brick on the floor. The bursts, and screams just beyond.

I collapsed beside him; when I saw the face.

Fred.

His eyes were glassy, his skin pale. He was dead.

I felt my heart constrict for George. I saw him so broken right before my eyes. Making soft pleas to god.

“Don’t leave me, Freddie. Come back…” He was sobbing. Pleading.

But it was over. He was already gone.

I didn’t care about the past. It faded, at the sight of him. So shattered.

I curled my arms around him. Felt him melt into my embrace. Arms curving to grip my waist. Face pushed into the skin of my neck.

His hot tears burned my flesh, reminding me he would never recover from this.

“Shh…I am here. You have me. I’m right here…” I offered him solace. I let him back in.

We needed each other. Now more than ever.

He didn’t fight me. Didn’t pull away. Just sobbed.

Clung to my clothes for dear life. Bunched them in his hands, his strong, muscled arms crushed me under his weight. But I kept breathing.

I kept reminding him we were alive. Both of us.

I know Fred was his other half. I know I could never understand the connection of twins. But he was alive. I was here with him.

He was Twenty. I was Seventeen.

But he crumpled so easily in my arms. He loved; and lost.

It wasn’t meant to be his cunning, slightly older twin. It was supposed to be him. I know he thought it. I know he felt it.

He didn’t have to say it out loud for me to know.

“It wasn’t. You can’t die on me.” I was selfish. I still wanted him. I still loved him; despite how he hurt me that Christmas Eve.

He didn’t speak; just sobbed. Trembled.

He was too kind. Too affectionate. The loss of Fred would destroy him.

His sweet kindness, and his arms that would hold me so close. So near. They were trembling with the rest of him.

He was caked in blood; filth—and his scent was mixed with sweat, and salty tears. His very essence was damaged. His aura fractured. But he was still my George.

My big brother.

My only loving brother.

The family saw, bit by bit. Took in the death, mourned over Fred. And I held George in my arms.

I cried with him. I let him sob until he couldn’t anymore. Until his tears dried up.

When the war ended; when Voldemort was killed, I stood beside him, and held his hand.

He didn’t return to the burrow. He lived in the small attic above his Joke shop. He didn’t go home.

I convinced Mum that he needed me. That I would stay with him. She didn’t argue—didn’t seem suspicious. Fred’s death shook us all to the core.

But none so much as George.

He was a shadow of the bright, loving boy he had been before the war. Before his loss. He would disassociate for hours at a time.

He would sit in Fred’s armchair, and stare into the fire. His skin that had once been so warm; so overheated, ran cold.

He bundled under sweaters; he mourned, and refused meals. I still cooked for him.

I didn’t care. I let this mourning carry on for two weeks. I let him be a shell. A heavily burdened man filled with guilt. Survivor’s guilt.

He missed Fred. His other half.

How did I fix that? How could I?

It was one night that he sat near the fire. Fred’s armchair soft, and cushioned beneath him. That he zoned out. I saw the dark circled rim his eyes. The lack of sleep; had come over him. I slept each night in George’s bed. He slept in Fred’s.

But tonight I found he didn’t come to bed. He stared into the flames.

Ignored the room around him. Ignored everything. Even me.

I had to bring him back. Seeing him lost—seeing him trapped—in his own mind. I couldn’t let him fade. I was donned in his shirt. One that I swam in. The flowing fabric met my lower thighs. My knickers the only thing of mine I was wearing.

I spoke to him first. But he didn’t let his eyes waver from the fire’s harsh flames.

He didn’t hear me. Didn’t see me.

I lowered onto his lap, knees digging in to the cushion of the navy blue armchair. His clothes had not been changed in a day. He hadn’t showered in two. Nor had he eaten all day.

I was worried.

“George. Come back to me.” I let the whispered words flow against his lips.

I felt him shiver at my fingers graze of his cheek—Still he didn’t respond.

I lowered my chin then, pushed my lips to pair with his. He twitched slightly. His lips cold, like ice. His warmth gone, despite his close proximity to the fire.

My tears spilled, dropping onto his sweater. He still didn’t move.

I kissed him again. And pushed my hips down into his. Grinding, yearning for a reaction. He needed to come back. He’d been gone for too long this time. A whole day was a record.

It used to be minutes. Maybe hours. But never a full day.

Where did he go? Where did his mind take him?

I wondered but had no answers. He wouldn’t talk to me. His lips were sealed. Quiet. Unlike before when he would whisper shyly to me.

He wasn’t shy anymore. He wasn’t anything. He just existed.

Merely lived.

Caught between this world, and the next.

I feared he would follow Fred. I didn’t want that for him. I would never want that for him. And neither would Fred.

His twin wouldn’t have wanted to see him like this.

I hoped he wasn’t watching. I didn’t want Fred to see what we had kept so secret from him.

It was the third time; he reacted.

I dragged my lips against his. I bit them slightly; just a nip. I wanted him to come back.

He did.

Tucking his arms around me, he dragged me closer. Bunched up the shirt that had his scent coating it; pulling it up around my thighs, and returned the kiss. It wasn’t soft. Not remotely. It was urgent, like it had become, as he got older.

He was a man. He had to have those carnal urges somewhere. We hadn’t laid together again in almost two years. And somehow I knew he hadn’t sought this comfort in another’s arms. He didn’t kiss as we had kissed; didn’t tug another between his sheets.

He drank. Fred had whispered about his drinking to Mum. A year ago, at the burrow.

He drank still. When he was lucid. He drank until his mind tuned out. Until nothing remained but silence, his thoughts quieted.

Had he drank again, while I slept last night? He did. I tasted it on his tongue.

The bitter liquid hung on to him. Hugging his clothes, besmirching his scent. The cinnamon and sugar was faint on him now. The liquor all encompassing.

He started drinking, because of me. Because of how we ended. The timelines matched. And despite his quiet, refusal to answer me—I knew. It broke him to end this. Just like it broke me.

Only I broke differently.

I chose pain. He chose numbness.

We couldn’t repair what was fractured in us, because the damage was done. But we could try to love again. We could try.

I wanted to forgive him. I wanted to be okay again.

I ground my hips down a second time; and received a pained whimper in return. He needed to heal—somehow. And I could only heal if we were one again.

The locket burned around my neck. Hotter, the longer we kissed without penetration. He was weakening; his resolve was torn away completely. His sense of morals, his right, and wrong. Nothing mattered in this moment—only us.

I fidgeted with his belt, prying open his trousers. He didn’t stop me. Just kept kissing. Bruising me with his fingers, digging into my skin through the shirt—hard. Pain no longer stung like it did before.

I craved it.

His prick sprung free; already erect. I curved my fingers around the length, and stroked. He groaned again.

He didn’t speak, pushed my hand away with his stronger one. Fabric of my knickers quickly shoved aside he sheathed himself within me.

Quick. Absently.

We both groaned under the weight of being connected again. I dug my nails into his shoulders through the sweater. He panted; deep heavy breaths across my skin. He lifted me. I twined my legs around his waist.

My back met the sheets of Fred’s bed. I felt the springs contract beneath me. Could smell George infused in the sheets, and an unfamiliar scent—Fred’s.

He pushed deeper into me. I squealed.

He took me like an animal. He kissed me, forced his tongue between my lips. Made me stretch to accommodate his length. It had been too long again.

I wasn’t used to being stretched so wide anymore. He took. And I gave.

He pushed, and thrust until he tired under the strain. His muscles collapsed when he finally came. Warm liquid pooled my insides. My fingers found his tufts of hair.

Letting him cool, letting his skin return to the cold it now permanently existed in.

He wept in my arms after. I didn’t know if it was from shame due to being with me, or the constant mourning from the loss of Fred.

I didn’t ask. He didn’t tell.

After that night I found my kisses were the only thing that could bring him back when he went away. His mind would overcome him otherwise. He would remain very still. Very detached until I brought him back.

I was the tether that returned him here. I connected him to the living world. Fred connected him to the afterlife. He hung between, never here. Never there. Their souls had been one. Fred’s death split George’s in two. How could he live with half a soul? He wasn’t.

I would crawl naked into his bed, when he slept. He would awaken, and take from my flesh. He ran his mouth along the scars I carved into my skin. He didn’t comment. Only kissed them. All of them.

I noticed the differences in him when we laid together. Hair had sprouted upon his chest. And I had changed as well. I wasn’t smooth, and soft between my thighs anymore. Hair grew, reddish, and coarse, to match his that had blossomed years ago.

We were equals now. Both grown.

He was a man. I was a woman.

I would always be his little one, but I wasn’t a little girl anymore.

I loved him, with all my heart. And I needed him, like Mum needed Dad.

He painted my thighs with bruises when he thrust. I felt the aftermath always. I never healed—but I was okay with it.

I had a part of George back. He wasn’t fully with me. At least not mentally—but he was here in body, if not in soul.

He found solace in me. He kissed until our lips swelled, and took me sometimes four times a day. There was no pattern. Just utter chaos.

I would be cooking, dicing tomatoes, chopping green onions; he would be drinking. Settled in Fred’s armchair. And just like that he would come up behind me. Kiss my neck. Crumple my dress, and bend me over the counter. He had begun to crave taking me from behind. I didn’t ask where the urge came from. But  I complied.

My back to his front. Like when he touched me those first times.

Perhaps it was sentimental. Maybe it was the influential hands of the drink. Maybe it was something psychologically deeper. I couldn’t be sure.

I deferred from Hogwarts for my final year. I wanted to be home. With George.

Where he was—that was home.

His arms, his heart. Those I couldn’t be away from.

Mum had a row with me over it. Insisted I had to return to school, I couldn’t be his keeper. He’s a grown man, with a store to run. But he doesn’t run it anymore.

He barely leaves that armchair. I run the store in his absence. I prod him, until he will eat for me. I kiss him when he falls into a trance.

He needs me. She doesn’t understand how much.

He would be dead if it wasn’t for my guiding hand that kept him alive.

Our family couldn’t bear a second loss. We barely survived Fred’s.

She will thank me, someday. I hope. Until that day we don’t talk anymore. I don’t talk to anyone in my family. Neither does George.

He drinks. He sleeps. He wakes with nightmares so intense that he cuddles into me for comfort. For warmth. He cries into my neck, and dark circles are ever present underneath his eyes. His complexion is pale from the lack of sunlight.

His skin thinning, and clothes baggy on him. I am afraid I can’t keep him alive. Afraid he wants Fred more. He wants to be reunited with him far too soon.

His hearing has worsened, on his bad side, and I fear someday it will be gone entirely. He doesn’t hear me when I speak on that side. Not always.

His health has deteriorated, despite what I’ve done to keep him sane, and alive.

But that wasn’t the worst. The worst I kept quiet. I refused to believe in the worst.

He had to know what we had done. He simply had to.

We found solace so deep, that the days passed swiftly. And he would spend hours attending to my flesh. Sliding hands over my breasts. Squeezing, kneading the flesh until I would gasp out in pleasure. They were tender, sensitive now to touch.

He ignored the sensitivity, didn’t acknowledge it, at all.

He had to notice they swelled, and got bigger. My abdomen was protruding ever so slightly. Didn’t he see? Or feel when his stomach would press down against mine in the throes of passion? He would collapse on top of me—it had to be a hard bump.

My skin had flushed, and began to glow. My heart rate was slightly faster, no longer matching his as it once did.

Still he took pleasure. And we both ignored the consequence. We entwined with each other. We made love until we couldn’t stand. He kissed my lips. He drank, and bent me over the dining room table. We never stopped. We just kept going.

I didn’t want to believe it was true. I wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening.

I had never gotten my monthly. All through school I had never once bled, even though I knew I was supposed to someday. I kept thinking I was behind schedule.

My growth was still stinted, it would come when it was ready. It never did.

But now—I was swollen—all over.

I was straining to fit my tighter clothes. It was water weight. That is what I told myself.

I know it couldn’t be. But denial is so powerful.

Finally I had to tell. I couldn’t take the ignorance any longer. He finished inside of me. Hovering overhead. Supporting his weight on either arm. Letting his green eyes meet mine. He was here. He was with me—it was time.

“I’m carrying your child.” I saw the joy from moments before leave his eyes. I felt the trembling of his arms, as he struggled to support himself.

I heard the raspy shake of his breathing—as his brain worked to understand.

My hand cupped his cheek. Brushed the skin, and his eyes went from mine—to the small bump between us. How far gone was I? To my calculations perhaps three months? Maybe four? I barely knew the months. I hadn’t been keeping track of anything—just him.

“No.” Was all he whispered in return.

Pulling up, then out of me—he left me on Fred’s mattress. Bare, splayed on the sheets. And he returned to the armchair, and drank.

He didn’t touch me for three days. He didn’t speak. Refused food. Refused kisses—refused to come to bed. Refused everything.

He wouldn’t let his mind comprehend what I told him. He wouldn’t believe it was true.

No matter how I spoke; how I pried—he pretended it wasn’t real.

I know he didn’t mean to. We never protected ourselves—because we never had to before. I never bled. I never developed properly. I thought myself sterile.

We had laid together every night for years. I should have become pregnant then. I didn’t. I couldn’t wrap my head around losing him. What if this fact killed him?

What if the shame, the self-hatred finally consumed him whole?

He drank until he passed out. He couldn’t face me. He couldn’t face this truth.

And what of our parents? Our siblings? What would they think of us?

I could imagine the judgmental speech from Percy. The fury of Mum, and the disappointment from Dad. I could imagine being disowned. Unwelcome at the burrow. Like Percy had been when he chose the ministry over his family.

He was still not regarded with particular warmth. Even though he was allowed back grudgingly.

I didn’t know what would become of them, once they were found out.

I thought about terminating the pregnancy. But every time it came to mind—I couldn’t follow through on the thought.

It was a piece of George. It was a piece of my beloved brother.

I couldn’t destroy it any more than I could destroy him. Not when he pushed himself so close to the grave.

I let him languish for three days. But I couldn’t anymore. I settled on his lap. I played with his strands of hair, and woke him from his drunken slumber.

I was upset. Tears were glistening in my eyes, and I was afraid.

The hormones were having an impact on me. A negative one this night.

I couldn’t stop imagining a world without him. Without his strong arms to hold me tight, and his kind smile to lift my heart. Even though he hadn’t given me that smile in years now I couldn’t imagine never seeing it again.

He was everything to me. Everything. And I gave up whatever life I might have known, to take care of him. To make sure he had a future. Because I couldn’t do nothing, and watch him die.

I felt him waking, saw a connection in his eyes, when they met mine.

He was my George for a second. I saw him so clearly staring back at me. Curiosity in his green hues. He strained to understand my tears through a shroud of drunkenness.

I rested my hands on his shoulders, letting my own shake with sobs.

“You can’t give up. You can’t leave me, George.” I spoke through tears. And hiccups.

He wiped them as they fell with rough hands. He didn’t speak. He just watched me.

“It needs you too. Our child. I can’t raise it alone…” I would be lost. Thrown to a pack of angry wolves, and discarded.

Our family won’t forgive us. I came to that conclusion on my own. I felt the locket burning my skin. It was so hot with the love from my aching heart. For him. For our unborn offspring—I thought it might explode.

He regarded me with further silence. I saw how tired he looked. How defeated—broken. It was more than Fred’s death alone. It was worry. He had failed to protect me. His little one.

He had used me to weather a storm, and dragged me under the current to drown.

He didn’t mean to. I know he didn’t. But it happened regardless.

He was sorry.  I saw it in his eyes. He was also lost, and I was out of ideas on how to bring him back home.

“Do you remember how it felt before?” I was shocked when he spoke. Tears still wet my cheeks. I dissected his question. Internalized it—and tried to remember.

Before what? Before he made me his, and didn’t touch me for three years? Before he gave me everything, only to rip it away a day before Christmas? Or how it had been, during the war? The fear. The pain. Before Fred’s demise? Or before he knew? Before I told him what he should have known on his own? Before the knowledge of our child?

“What do you mean?” I was hesitant; soft. I feared breaking him if I spoke too loudly.

“When we were just kids. When you just loved me because I was your big brother?” I went ridged. Because through all of the turmoil, the separations—the horrors. I couldn’t remember. Not anymore. There were glimpses. But nothing solid. I forgot.

I shook my head, solemnly. Feeling a lump of regret where those memories had once been.

“I do. I remember all of it.” His voice was barely above a whisper. It was so frail. He was frail.

Another tear slipped down. “I still love you the same.” I managed. But did I really? How many times had I lost my love for him, because he tried to push us back there? I had hated him at one point. Hated how he could be so cruel, yet knowing he had so much kindness inside of him.

How did this happen? How could my love have twisted into what it was now? I never consciously realized it had happened. I just know that it did.

“I tried so hard, not to love you, Gin. I knew you were getting older. Too old to love so freely. I knew that Christmas Eve, when your eyes didn’t light up like they used to at my stories—we had to stop. I knew then. The dangers of this love.” I was rigid. Frozen in comprehension. He knew I would get my monthly soon.

I should have gotten it by seventeen. But I hadn’t.

“I knew you were growing up. You were almost too big for my lap. Your body was grown, you were almost a woman. Almost.” I felt sadness tug at my stomach. This was the most he had spoken to me since Fred’s death. I listened. I wanted to hear all of it.

“I didn’t want you to swell with my child. I knew what it would mean, Gin. I knew it would destroy us both.” He wiped my tears. I was still silent.

“Now it’s too late. I’ve ruined you. Like I ruin everything.” His last heartfelt words shattered me.

I sobbed. He believed it. He believed that he could ruin me with a child. Our child. He didn’t see that I could withstand the loss of our family’s love, if I could only have his instead. I could weather any storm. I could survive any loss. Just not his. Never his.

I contemplated suicide last time he pulled away. If he died—I would go through with it.

I would end everything.

Except now—Now there was a life that wasn’t just my own. I couldn’t follow him into the grave, with Fred. I couldn’t take an innocent life with me. Our pieces had meshed together, to create this little being. How could I forsake any part of him? One that could be his spitting image? I couldn’t.

He has to know I never could.

“You didn’t ruin me, George. You saved me. Don’t you see? You gave me a piece of you. You provided me something so special—so precious. I wanted to die when you left me. I thought about it, you know. I gave myself scars to forget how much it hurt. You ruin me, when you shut me out. When you leave me alone. George, if you die, I won’t survive it.” My hormones caused these heightened emotions.

My terror, and fear mixed together to create worst case scenarios, and I couldn’t function. I saw his eyes change. He was almost enlightened by my words. Enraptured in them. I saw his contemplation. His understanding.

“I’ll stay.” The words rang through the air. I almost didn’t hear them.

But relief cascaded over me. And I felt hope again.

Just hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is running longer than I initially intended. There is still at least one part left. If not two.


	5. Part 5: A Soulmate Eternal End.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **  
>  **   
>  _This is the final part of their story! It was a longer road than I expected, but writing this was truly a lovely experience! Keep tabs on my page! I will surely add more._   
> 

_Part 5: A Soulmate Eternal End._

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _Your lips were supposed to taste_
> 
> _like forbidden fruit._
> 
> _Yet, every breath exchanged_
> 
> _between our urgent mouths_
> 
> _tasted limitless._
> 
> _Boundary lines melted_
> 
> _The moment your ardent skin_
> 
> _Pleaded with mine to say yes._
> 
> _‘Yes’ was the only reply_
> 
> _My flesh could utter._

 

 

* * *

 

After that night—he tried.

He got up with the morning sun, and drank less than he had in months. He still retired to Fred’s worn sheets. Still refused to permit me to launder them, despite how long it had been.

Fred’s scent was still on them. It was all he had left—I understood.

It was the last place Fred had slept—he felt closer to him there.

He ate when I cooked, cleared his plate. Let me cut the long strands of his hair down, until he appeared like himself again.

He wasn’t shaggy, and unkempt.

He  even shaved regularly, rather than sporadically. His cheeks were soft, no longer scratchy with stubble. His temperature, however did not return to the overly hot temp it had been previous.

He remained cold, almost too cold—all the time. I thought it was a lingering condition of his shattered soul. His divide between the dead, and the living.

I could never be sure, but I was no longer as worried.

He returned to his shop, running it; selling the products by my side. I hid the bump developing under my clothes for as long as I could.

Some asked, I deflected. Feigned ignorance on my weight gain. George’s eyes would flicker; calculate the risks of our family coming to know of my pregnancy. They never came to visit. They wouldn’t know.

Although he was reluctant at first, we resumed sharing a bed. He was softer now, when we were intimate. Afraid perhaps of hurting our baby.

He stopped bending me over the table. The urge for gentility in him, overpowered those that requested roughness.

I savored his touch, memorized his ever-changing scent; lusted for his kisses everywhere. One night in particular, I awoke so overcome with emotions—with need; that I woke him, so that we could couple again.

The pregnancy made me insatiable. His lips started traveling new places. Peppering kisses between my thighs. Lapping at my slit. Kissing my pleasure bud. Sucking on me there. Until explosions pulsed through my body. The necklace was always heated, always on fire against my skin. It held our love. The strength of our love for each other.

I was certain of it now.

He would massage my shoulders, then my back when the day tugged my muscles into aches. He took care of me with his strong hands. Just as I took care of him when he disassociated.

It still happened—but far less now that he allowed his mind to be distracted—rather than numbed.

Kisses were enough to pull him out.

He took care of me now. He whispered words of love into my ear, at night. Made promises this time, I knew would not be broken.

The pregnancy progressed. The bump protruded well past any ability to hide it. And as I grew larger, my ability to do simple tasks grew impaired. My skin was hot; flushed, and my body felt strained—unwell.

One night was worst above all others. I strained, cried, and wept. But I felt pain in my abdomen. I feared the baby was being taken from us. He sent for a healer. One came. He poked, and prodded, as I sobbed in hysteria.

He promised the babies were fine. There were two.

Four little legs. Four little arms. Kicking away.

I saw the absence in George’s eyes when the news sank in. He went away. He descended into himself the rest of that night.

I was put on bed rest. Told I couldn’t get up. Couldn’t strain myself.

George took care of me. Although after that night—his breath again tasted of alcohol.

I know it’s not easy for him. This has never been easy. But I can’t lose him to the numbness again. I remember how it felt. How scared I was.

‘ _Don’t George. Not again._ ’ I pleaded in my head.  A reminder that he was capable of tuning everything out. That his kindness, his compassion could swallow him whole.

We wouldn’t survive his conscience devouring him. Neither of us.

He still bedded me. My stabbing hormones demanded him to. And now when we exploded, my toes would curl, and kicks would flutter my insides.

The babies moved in their home. Reacting to his touch, to his voice. Rough hands would drag over my swollen belly. Small feet would kick out at him. And that was the first time I saw him smile.

Genuinely smile. Like he used to.

The way I loved him to.

He made me comfortable. Gave me his chest as a pillow. His beating heart as solace. Even dug Floppy out of a crumpled box for comfort.

He regaled me with tales of old.  Twisted my hair around his fingers, tilted my chin to give me soft kisses. He was my George again. I don’t know how—but he revived his old light. Even with the knowledge we were having twins. Even though the agony of losing Fred was still raw like a nerve. He came around.

Just as promptly as there was light—There was dark.

Ron came to visit. He apparated inside. Into the living area. He came into the bedroom we shared. Saw George kiss me. A stray hand brushing our babies. He saw enough.

I pleaded in a frenzy—not to tell anyone. George’s mind detached immediately. He went flaccid on the bed. Eyes elsewhere. He couldn’t deal with it. He couldn’t handle it.

I strained myself. I had to. Slid from the bed, stood on wobbly legs to sprint—more like hobble—after him. Nothing else mattered. I pleaded for him to understand.

George needed this. Needed me. He was a shell, and I brought him back. I made him okay again. Ron was sick. I saw it in his face. He thought we were twisted—warped. He couldn’t stand what we had become. If he only knew that we had always been this way. There was no became—We were this way.

We loved in ways we had no right to love—our whole lives.

I tearfully explained. I begged. I cried. The pleas fell on deaf ears. He didn’t care that I was carrying George’s twins. Didn’t care that we loved each other. He wouldn’t be privy to our secrets alone.

So he told.

I went into labor soon after. Birthed the babies above the joke shop. It was April 1st.

Fred, and George’s birthday.

It was a sign—or a misfortune.

George didn’t come out of himself—he stayed lost, until after the birth—I had put him in a chair, beside the bed. He stared blankly as I screamed.  I held his hand. Then pushed.

I had them both. Healthy. Pink. Lovely creatures.

Boy, and girl.

Flaming red tufts of hair on either head. Ten fingers. Ten toes. Full, hungry lips, gobbled down the milk that spilled from my breasts. One on each arm right after birth.

I waited. I was patient. George came back to me. He always came back.

He held his son. Then his daughter. He didn’t speak. Didn’t acknowledge the strain on my body. Or that Ron had seen us. He was just silent.

I didn’t push him.

“We can name one Fred.” I was quite. Afraid to startle him.

He cradled our daughter in his arms. Holding her daintily—as though afraid he might hurt her.

I held our son. Cradled; nestled to my breast where he suckled hungrily from my teat.

He nodded. His eyes rimmed with tears. It would be difficult to call him Fred. But the stabbing pain would wear off in time.

“And our girl?”

I thought. “You name her.”

He stared down at her rounded face. Taking in her features. Letting her suckle on his index finger soundly.

“Katelyn.” He decided.

I smiled, and he settled next to me where I laid.

The day passed, and the next was met with anger. Our parents, yelled—and raved. Both of them. Father I had never seen so much as raise his voice—shouted. And chastised.

Even after baring witness to our small lives. I defended us—George tuned them out. He went somewhere else. He couldn’t handle it. The shame was too great. He had struggled his whole life not to love me—for this reason.

Every single day—He struggled.

He was hurting now; because I had fought for him. Loved him anyway.

I reminded myself that losing him was not an option. Dispersing from the family—Was.

Fighting, screaming. And lots of tears later. We all were exhausted.

I saw so much disappointment in our Mum’s eyes. She thought she had raised us right—And she did.

We were just damaged from the beginning. It wasn’t her. It was us. Something was wrong with us. My eyes had never looked at George, like they did Ron. Or Percy. Never with familial love. But with love from my very soul. It was stronger than any bond I had ever known. Nothing burned stronger. It took me this long, but I understand who he is.

He’s my soulmate.

His soul may have been connected to Fred. It may have even died a little, when Fred’s was vanquished—but it’s my soul alone that can bring him back when he goes away. My soul is a tether to his.

It is why he has protected me. Why he feels so strongly for me. Even though he fought it, he could never overcome it.

Our bond.

I felt it in the form of attraction as a little girl. A bubbling tug in my lower abdomen. Something that came about before he ever touched me. It was always there. Guiding me—leading me towards him.

And our parents could never break that bond.

Not now. Not ever.

There was no fault. No blame. It just was.

It always would be.

They understood with sorrowful eyes as I belayed what I now knew. What I think I subconsciously always knew. He is mine. I am his. There is no in-between. They can hate us. Disown us. Ignore their Grandchildren, but we would run, I would run—to the ends of the Earth with him, if they tried to rip us apart.

Mum cried. Dad held her. And they left.

It was George I worried about. I wanted to know where he went. I needed to see what happened to him. So I used legilimency. His mind was weak. Pliable. I was let in easily enough. I searched, for him inside his brain.

Found him in a light place. It was bright. Unwavering there. And I saw him, among the tendrils of grass, his hand brushing the strands. His lips curved into a wide smile as he ran with his twin.

They were younger. Much younger. And carefree here.

I saw them play, saw them hug. They ran, until their lungs burst with exhaustion, until the stars, and moon came out. Until time itself seemed to still.

A memory? Another plane of existence? I didn’t know. But it was beautiful here.

I watched for as long as I could. Until I was forced from his mind; by his reappearance in our world. With me.

I spoke his name. He kissed my lips. So soft—so beautifully.

He took me back to bed. For rest. I couldn’t make love to with him, I just birthed our babies. But he laid beside me. Stroked my hair, and smiled at me.

I returned the sentiment.

“Is that where you go? Every time?” I wanted to know.

“Always.” He kissed me again.

I returned it.

“Is it real?” I asked.

“I hope so. I need him to be happy.” He stroked my hair. Fidgeted with the ends. Kissed my nose. Brushed our lips.

“He’s at peace, George. Wherever he is. He is happy.” I refused to believe anything less. He deserved happiness, after the horrors of the war.

“So am I.” He mused into my hair.

The days passed. He came to grips with our parents not speaking to us. We both did. We had each other. We always had. That was all that mattered—truly.

Our children grew. They played, and came to love the joke shop. Our twins became three—when I fell pregnant again.

Despite knowing the consequences, I didn’t want to give up our love. So I didn’t. We were active as ever between the sheets. We decided together, to be at peace. The war had ended. Fred was gone—but we remained. He struggled. I pulled him back. The tether was strong.

I asked him once, about the locket. One night in bed, his hand brushing the bump of our child, our others long since asleep.

The locket was warm on my chest. His skin soft on my skin. I was curious. It was a natural instinct.

“Why did you give me the locket? Why then?” It was poignant. Straight out of my lips.

“I knew how sad you were. How lost. You needed something. You needed a piece of me. My memories. You needed to know how much I loved you. Even if I couldn’t be there for you.” He waited so long to speak, I didn’t think he would.

My sweet, shy, George. He barely spoke. He never was a talker.

Always there to listen. To love blindly.

Fred used to love that about him. His silence. He had wisdom, more than speech.

He always knew so much; always found the ability to give compassion to another in need. Especially me. Always me.

“How did you afford it?” His lips formed a smile.

“I found it. In the attic. I enchanted it. Made it yours.”

I felt my heart flutter, and I couldn’t have loved him more.

“Thank you.”

I have no doubt he is my soulmate. I don’t know why he was born my brother—but no one can change their lineage. Nor decide who they love.

Only time will tell; if our sins will be damning. Or if god will take pity on the souls he created to be mates, against all odds.

The outcast twin, and the fiery only girl.

We were always meant to be together. ** _Always._**


End file.
